


you help someone up when they fall

by LightDescending



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: F/F, Feelings, Gentle Kissing, Grappling with sudden mortality, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Injury, Light Angst, Missing Scene, Tenderness, Vignette, but this fic contains none, immortality problems, minor reference to sex, only in the sense that Celeste might infer that's what happened here; Andy doesn't correct her
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:27:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25249165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LightDescending/pseuds/LightDescending
Summary: Andromache the Scythian has seen the rise and fall of countless empires, been worshipped and feared and spoken of in hushed whispers and called upon for aid and succor. She is the oldest of them. The first. And she has never needed medical attention  before today.(Or: an exploration of Andy's thoughts during the pharmacy sequence mid-film, and a tender encounter with Celeste the clerk)
Relationships: Andy | Andromache of Scythia / Celeste
Comments: 66
Kudos: 245





	you help someone up when they fall

Andy’s shoulder throbs persistently. A klaxon of an injury. With each moment that it fails to close up on its own, the kernel of panic within her grows. It’s like being branded. The same kind of burning, searing pain – how deep did the knife penetrate? Is it worth wondering?

How to cover for this. With what she’s grabbed, an injury is obvious. Injury means vulnerable. Vulnerable means death.

Candy. Candy bars. A sweep of them into the basket, tumbling atop everything else she’s taken from the shelves. Normally, these are all she’d come in to a place like this for. Andy clings to that shred of habit, as though it could help in this moment. Convenience food, junk, really; the luxury of enjoying it without worrying over the “ _include in moderation as a part of a balanced diet”_ messages printed in tiny font across the labels is one of the only small pleasures she takes in this godforsaken era.

Is she going to have to start considering that too, if she makes it out of the next couple of days without dying? Will the minute injuries of daily living start to accrue, accumulate like a debt within her systems? God, how much does she _owe_?

How many times has the clerk looked up at her, from where she stands sentinel at the till?

She’s taking too long.

Relax. She’s the only one in the store.

All in silence, the pharmacy clerk rings through each item. Bandages. Something called Steri-Strips. Three different kinds of medicated ointments – Andy’s French is rusty, outdated by at least half a century, and the nature and properties of each of these treatments eludes her. Active ingredients. The very _concept_ of medicine. For so long, it’s been nothing but booze for what ails her; occasionally, other drugs. Some would call nihilism her substance of choice. She’s thought of it as realism, or pragmatism, or any other school of philosophy which allows for recklessness as a coping mechanism. Regardless, she’s got no idea which of the salves or modern poultices would be effective, and so swept them all into her basket indiscriminately. She’ll figure it out in an alley somewhere. Or on the street. In the cave, once Booker and Nile have gone to sleep.

She has to hold the basket with her good arm. Afraid to move the other, to bring her own attention to the injury.

Why isn’t it getting better?

The clerk keeps looking at her, with her smudged eyeliner and dark lip colour. The brusque way she snaps a plastic grocery bag open, Andy thinks she might suspect something untoward is going on. Ought she bolt? Should she knock the employee out? No, too conspicuous. And the cameras. Of course there are cameras here. It’s night. It’s a store. In public. 

Police sirens, outside. For her? No, already their sound is retreating, echoing into the far distance to attend some other call. She’s jumpy. And the clerk catches on – Andy can tell, from the look she wears when Andy turns back to face her.

She clears her throat. The cave won’t work. Nor will the street. In her state, someone might try to take advantage. Now, of all times, she’s not sure she’d have the wherewithal to fight back effectively. Too skittish and distracted.

“Do you have a bathroom?”

“No.”

 _Fuck_.

The clerk seems to reconsider, biting at her lip for a split second.

“But we have a store room. Do you need help?”

Something in her countenance reminds her of Quynh. The open seriousness in her face, maybe.

Andy nods.

The clerk breathes in through her nose, flicking a glance towards the entrance.

“Just one second. I’m the only one in tonight – I’ll need to lock up temporarily. It’s that way, past the crisps; meet me there.”

Even her feet feel clumsy. Awkward, she waits obediently where she was told – what else can she do? _Réservé aux employés,_ the sign to her left reads. To the best of her ability, Andy remains in the blind spot of the camera trained to cover this area. Shit. She ought to see if there’s a moment to wipe the footage of her visit, if she’s going to be accepting help. From this vantage, she can see behind the countertop: a remedial set up of monitors, displaying blurred greyscale live-feeds. But it’s too late – the clerk is already turning, locks having _clacked_ into place under her hand, as though Andy’s thoughts triggered some latent protocol.

When she tries to place a hand on Andy’s injured shoulder, an unconscious gesture of comfort, Andy flinches away. The clerk startles nonetheless. And then, she looks shameful.

“Come with me.”

Almost too soft.

Last chance to run away. All the same, Andy follows.

If it were Booker, Joe, or Nicky who she stood before… Andy would have no qualms about dealing with this in front of someone. They’ve seen each other eviscerated and worse, so undressing is just par for the course when it gets shit done. But there’s a sticky, cold patch of blood on the inner lining of her trench-coat, and peeling it away has her sucking a breath in between gritted teeth. It _had_ coagulated. Now, it’s bleeding all over again. The clerk, to her credit, averts her eyes while Andy slides the strap of her tank top down her arm as well, just as gingerly. Mother _fucker_ , but it hurts.

“This will need cleaning,” the clerk says, after a moment’s inspection.

Andy looks away to distract herself while plastic gets torn from various bottles, and cardboard packaging opened. The store room contains typical untidy clutter. Office supplies. A desk scattered over with office supplies. What must be the clerk’s bag, covered with patches and pins, haphazardly left atop one of the chairs; for the day shift, when more staff are around, there are lockable cubbies. On the wall is a cork-board with mundane pamphlets. Worker’s safety notices. A timesheet. Schedules. An invitation for a mix-and-mingle of some kind, involving wine and fancy cheeses at a bistro nearby.

The first cold, liquid daub of cotton against her skin catches her off-guard, and Andy has to grab at her own arm reflexively. This serves three purposes: the first, to hold her injured arm in place. The second, prevention of a violent, reactive swing. The third, a countering pain – she digs her fingers in hard enough that she may have marks, later, but Andy reckons that’s a small price to pay. Let those serve as reinforcement of her new reality if they appear. In her mind she relives the swing of the blade, over and over. How easily it pierced her. Stupid, stupid, to think that she could outrun this inevitability! Now that it’s caught her…

That’s not helpful.

She focuses instead, now, on the clerk – her tugged-up sleeves showing off the tender veins of her inner arms, the three thin black bracelets around a slim wrist reaching towards Andy with infinite care. Her rings tap against the side of Andy’s neck, as she applies more iodine.

Using her peripherals, Andy looks at the knife wound. The dark, vital red at the heart of it, and the unsettling impression of raw edges. It’s so small, and yet… she still has to look away from what it represents.

The rip of a bandage. A slight tugging sensation, as the cut is sutured from side-to-side with one of those Steri-Strips.

“Stitches would be better, but… this will help,” the clerk is saying, without stopping her ministrations. Another strip joins the first. Then a third.

Andy recalls her voice, from wherever it’d retreated.

“You haven’t asked.”

“Your business is yours.” Her gaze is steady. How had Andy ever mistaken its intensity and insight for judgment? “You need help. What does it matter why? Today, I put this on your wound. Tomorrow, you help someone up when they fall.”

Why does that make Andy’s heart clench to hear? As though the words are prophecy from the mouth of an oracle. The clerk continues, unaware of the effect she’s having. Or perhaps _very_ aware, and meaning every word to be heard by someone who clearly needs it.

“We’re not meant to be alone.”

Andy looks at the clerk. The clerk focuses on her work, then draws back slightly; a clean bandage now covers everything.

“There. This should do.”

The pain is lessened. A sting rather than a scream. Andy starts to tug her coat back up, forgetting to replace her shirt strap. “Thank you.”

The clerk caps the bottle of iodine, then, and Andy could cry for the way she doesn’t quite smile as she leans back on her stool. She is unmoored.

“What’s your name?”

Her eyes are the soft grey of an overcast day, or of fog rolling in to envelop the land. Calming. Restful, and kind.

“Celeste,” she replies. One side of her makeup is smudged just a little more than the other, and she fidgets with one of the rings on her left hand before resting them still in her lap.

“ _Heavenly_.”

An intelligent move would be to return to Booker and Nile immediately – find out what they’ve learned, if anything, and try to sleep. She’ll have to think about sleeping more regularly now.

Instead, Andy finds her hand – her right hand – drifting up towards an errant lock of the clerk’s hair. Brushing it back.

“Celeste,” she repeats, letting the syllables rest along her tongue. What she wants to say will come out a little clumsy, inelegant in her disused French, but nonetheless she’ll ask. Needs to, maybe. “ _If I can’t, I’ll just go. But may I kiss you?”_

“ _Yes_.”

Uttered just as surely as the first word she’d spoken to Andy, but… quieter.

Andy reaches forth, taking Celeste’s hand between her own. Her fingers curl in, and her knuckles are a little chapped – possibly from frequent washings. Turning it over; lifting the hand. A hint of fragrance lingers at Celeste’s wrists, some delicate perfume, and Andy inhales before pressing her grateful mouth to the base of Celeste’s thumb. She hears a slight gasp, turns her head. A cheek to Celeste’s palm. Another offering, a wordless question.

Celeste joins her free hand to Andy’s other cheek, pulling her forward and up gently. Andy goes gladly, willing, and she tastes of cloves.

It’s a good kiss. Intimate.

Celeste brushes her fingertips against the side of Andy’s face, a tender gesture; lets her hand drift lower, until it presses to the open skin just over Andy’s ancient heart. She’s impossibly soft. There’s a damnable prickling at the corners of Andy’s eyes, and she wills them not to spill over. If she weren’t so tired and heart sore and needy she would let these kisses deepen; perhaps drop to her knees before this unpretentious healer, once an awesome show of vulnerability and service as far as any of her lovers or worshippers were concerned. And yet she’s only human. Blood, sweat, and…

Celeste releases her first.

“I have to get back to work,” she says, a shy smile on her face. It crinkles the edges of her eyes, gives a small dimple to one side of her mouth. “Remember me, here, if you need anything in coming days. My shifts will be the same until the weekend. It is hard to walk away. But you will not be the first to have done so.”

Such a misunderstanding. Impossible to tell her why walking away is not an option.

“I will remember.”

That much at least is true.

Outside, the streets are luminous with rain. Streetlights and neon store-signs find their dark reflection against the pavement, and everything smells earthy and deep. Andy has to fight her instinct to look back through the pharmacy windows, knowing that Celeste would be watching her go. Instead she shoves her hands deeper into the pockets of her coat and turns the corner.

_It’s time._

_We’re not meant to be alone._

When has she last been _aware_ of her heart’s beating?

At least next time, when there is a next time, she’ll know the answer to the question she hasn’t stopped asking for thousands of years. It seems there are some questions she’s forgotten to consider. Like the why.

A query that she’s not prepared for, the next day outside of London:

“Will you be okay?” Nile asks, looking for reassurances because she’s young and fresh enough to need them.

Her shoulder aches. The dry-swallowed pain med she’d taken earlier must be wearing off by now, and in such close quarters in the car, no opportunity to take another. Her right arm feels stiff, and yet it’s the one she’ll have to balance the gun with. If she can keep Booker from watching too closely, he won’t clock how she favours that side. Nicky and Joe, in the house up ahead. Broken promises. The need to count the cost.

Celeste had seen into and through her, drawing out something essential. Even if she has no inkling of the ramifications of what she's witnessed, at least someone knows.

None of the others can, yet. Not until she’s done what needs doing.

“Always,” Andromache says, and goes to meet what's next. 

**Author's Note:**

> What do you do with a jaded, millenia-old demi-goddess who suffers a non-lethal wound that indicates her time is up? Patch her up and remind her of the good in the world. Then kiss. I had to get this out of my system and leave myself an opening for a post-canon follow-up fic because did you see the way these two looked at each other? The proximity of it all? The tenderness? I'm weak.


End file.
